


A Little Bit of Magic

by AlwaysAFangirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gryffindor John Watson, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Potterlock, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Teenlock, Wizardlock, tw: bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27374896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysAFangirl/pseuds/AlwaysAFangirl
Summary: "John is distracted by the fact that the fifth-year Ravenclaws have Potions scheduled at the same time they do. He can’t seem to stop himself from paying too much attention to a certain curly-haired boy who keeps to himself at the back of the class."In which John and Sherlock go to Hogwarts and they are both a bit smitten with each other.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 142





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this fic, I absolutely loved imagining what John and Sherlock would be like if they'd gone to Hogwarts. I hope you enjoy reading this piece as much as I did writing it. A huge thanks to Becca for being the best cheerleader and beta for this fic!
> 
> There will be 3 chapters, total, all of which have already been written and edited. I can't wait to share the rest of their story with you and I'd love to know what you all think of this first chapter!

John packs up his books, forces himself to wake up after nearly having fallen asleep in Divination and quickly heads to the door, walking hurriedly down the stairs of the Astronomy tower to avoid getting cornered by Professor Trelawny. He’ll likely be beating himself up for choosing Divination as one of his elective courses for the rest of the year – the whole thing is complete rubbish – but it was the only lecture that didn’t interfere with Quidditch practice. It’s tight though, so he does need to hurry if he wants to make it to the pitch on time.

He just needs to focus on his core classes, those are the most important if he wants to get decent results on his O.W.Ls. If only Professor Snape didn’t hate him so much, he might not be so awful at Potions. Well, at least he knows it isn’t personal, Snape just hates everyone who isn’t a Slytherin. He needs to stop getting so distracted by how vile Snape is to his classmates during lectures though, it’s the main source of his distraction. Okay, so he _might_ also be distracted by the fact that the fifth year Ravenclaws have Potions scheduled at the same time they do.

Normally, that shouldn’t phase him, he’s had double Potions with both Slytherins and Hufflepuffs before in previous years. It’s just that he can’t seem to stop himself from paying too much attention to a certain curly-haired boy who keeps to himself at the back of the class. It’s ridiculous, really. _He’s_ ridiculous. He’s never even talked to him – no one does – and yet, it’s like he feels compelled to look, like he’s drawn to him by some kind of greater force he has absolutely no control over.

And apparently, he can’t stop thinking about him either. Like he is now. Damn it, it’s bloody annoying, he needs to stop and think about something else.

At least his evaluations in Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Defense Against the Dark Arts have been promising so far. If he can manage to bring up his Potions grades, then he’d have all he needs to become a Healer.

He’s still got loads of time though, it’s before Christmas and if he spends enough time during his breaks going over the course material, he’s sure he can catch up.

John hurries down the moving staircases, his Quidditch bag slung over his shoulder and he’s finally down on the grounds, a short jog away from the pitch when he hears shouts coming from around the corner of the castle on his right. He should let it be, whatever’s going on, it’s certainly none of his business.

“You’re a freak!” He hears the shouting again, and he can make out the words this time as he gets closer, followed by the sizzling crack of a spell and some sniggering. He should really just keep walking, but he feels something tugging at his insides and before he’s even made a conscious decision, he changes direction, following the voices on his right.

The voices grow clearer, more distinct and it seems there are two people laughing darkly while another mutters a frustrated curse. John peeks around the corner, his back flat against the brick of the castle and he reaches in the front pocket of his robes for his wand. He was right, there are two Slytherin’s, a boy and girl, standing together conspiratorially, and – his stomach lurches as he recognizes the other boy immediately, currently hanging upside down, suspended in midair by his ankle. It’s Sherlock, the Ravenclaw from his Potions class and John realizes the jinx he’s been hit with instantly, based on the effects.

“Not badmouthing us now, are you, Holmes?” And John realizes he knows the Slytherins as well when the boy speaks, Donovan and Anderson, another pair of fifth years he usually does his best to steer clear of.

“Why do you even bother coming back every year?” Donovan asks, hate dripping from every word.

“No one even likes you,” Anderson spits, as they both look up at a helpless Sherlock Holmes. “Been here five years and you haven’t even managed to make a single friend.”

Something dark and angry coils up in John’s belly and his grip tightens around his wand, heartrate growing faster as he considers which spell to use. He’s got a few hexes he’s been working on, ones he shouldn’t be learning until next year in Defense Against the Dark Arts, ones that might do more than sting a little, but he also doesn’t want to risk detention and getting kicked off the Gryffindor team.

“I hope you both have been working on your atrocious shielding charms, because I assure you, you’ll regret this,” Sherlock mutters, his face growing red now from hanging upside down for the last few minutes.

John grins and chooses that moment to spin around the corner, his wand ready, pointing it right at Donovan who he knows is a better witch than Anderson and shouts “ _Petrificus Totalus,”_ flicking his left wrist in a practiced movement. The paralysing curse hits Donovan square in the chest, her entire body going rigid as she falls backward. Anderson sputters, looking between Donovan and John, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

“What the hell, Watson?” He shouts, reaching into his own pockets for his wand but John is quicker.

“ _Expelliarmus,”_ he says quickly, and Anderson’s wand flies out of his hand and into John’s before he even has the time to point it in John’s general direction. He knows he’s probably just made two enemies out of the pair, but he truly couldn’t be arsed to care.

John looks at him, raising an eyebrow expectantly. “I think you should be on your way now, Anderson.” 

Anderson scowls, sneering at him but John stares him down defiantly. “What about her?” He looks down at Donovan, lying completely still on the ground, eyes wide open and limbs locked at her sides.

“She’ll be fine for the time being. You can fetch her in an hour,” John says simply. He has every intention of letting Donovan stew for a little bit, lord knows she deserves it.

Anderson looks conflicted. “You’ll regret this, Watson,” he threatens, but he turns and leaves in the opposite direction John came from, probably realizing he’s powerless to do anything else without his wand. Once he disappears around the corner, John turns and looks up at Sherlock, who’s been silent since John has made his presence known.

“ _Liberacorpus,”_ John uses the counter-jinx and he winces as Sherlock hits the ground unceremoniously. “You okay?” He asks, holding out his hand to help Sherlock back up. Sherlock looks at John’s offered hand as though it’s something entirely foreign, like he has no idea why it’s there or what he’s intended to do with it. His eyes move up to meet John’s apprehensively despite the fact that John just came to his aid.

“Fine,” he mutters, answering John’s question and he finally takes the offered hand, pulling himself back up to his feet. John’s fingers tingle where their hands meet, something akin to a current of electricity flowing throw the length of his arm.

John quickly takes notice of how much taller Sherlock is. He’s seen Sherlock around the grounds and obviously in Potions, but never this up close. Even if they haven’t officially met, John knew who he was the second he walked into their first Potions class, mostly due to his reputation.

Everyone knows who Sherlock Holmes is: probably the most talented wizard Hogwarts has seen in years, excels in pretty much every course, a positively brilliant Ravenclaw, and honestly John is surprised average wizards like Anderson and Donovan managed to get the drop on him. But it seems his talent is also a curse and possibly why most of the school hates him, John suspects, out of pure jealousy. Then again, Sherlock’s sharp tongue also doesn’t help; he’s known for being cold and unforgiving.

But now… Well, now that he’s up close, John is starting to understand why he’s been so distracted in Potions this year. It’s not that he hadn’t noticed how good looking he was before. No, Sherlock is pretty impossible _not_ to notice, with his dark, curly hair, pale skin and sharp cheekbones. Right now, though, it’s Sherlock’s piercing, light blue eyes, which have apparently struck John mute; he’s transfixed, completely lost in the depth of his striking gaze and all words seem to evaporate from his brain.

“You could have used a more damaging curse,” Sherlock says, breaking the silence between them. He lets go of John’s hand and dusts off his robes, his face slowly returning to its natural color. John finds he misses the warmth of Sherlock’s fingers instantly in his, but he consciously pushes the thought to the back of his mind. _Not the time._

“I considered it,” John admits, but he shrugs. “Couldn’t risk getting kicked off the team.”

“Right,” Sherlock says, looking John up and down, taking in his practice uniform and John has to consciously resist the urge to squirm under his assessing gaze. Why does he suddenly feel so nervous? “John Watson, star Chaser of the Gryffindor team,” Sherlock says, almost curiously, like he’s trying to figure him out but coming up short. _Wait_ – Sherlock actually knows his name? Knows _him_ and his position on the team? His heart stutters – did Sherlock just say _star player_ – but he recovers quickly. He doesn’t want to sound like an idiot.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” John counters, but Sherlock cuts him off before he can say anything more.

“Oh please, modesty is overrated. You’ve scored more points than any other player on every house team this year. Gryffindor wouldn’t stand a chance at the finals if it weren’t for you.” How does he even know that?

“I didn’t take you for a Quidditch buff,” John comments, perplexed, because how else would Sherlock know anything about John’s scoring average compared to other teams’?

Color rises to Sherlock’s cheeks again, though this time having nothing to do with being held upside down and John finds himself smiling at him. “I just observe,” he answers, brushing it off. They stand there for a few seconds, just looking at each other and John just can’t seem to look away, finds himself frozen in place, and inexplicably suddenly desperate to unravel every mystery behind the wizard that is Sherlock Holmes. John’s eyes drift down to Sherlock’s mouth, his upper lip curved in a perfect bow and thinks how it might be interesting to taste it.

Bloody hell, _where did that come from_? John clears his throat, averting his eyes, his own cheeks heating, and he brings a hand up to scratch the back of his head unconsciously.

“Well, I should probably go,” John says, taking a few steps back, a bit desperate to put some distance between them because apparently his thoughts are hellbent on betraying him. “I’m already late to practice,” he explains, pointing his thumb behind him in the vague direction of the pitch as though it wasn’t perfectly obvious where he’s going and curses himself. _Why_ is he being such an _idiot_ right now?

“Right,” Sherlock says again, his eyes still fixed on John in a way that makes his stomach flutter in a pleasant way.

John nods. “I’ll see you around then.” The corner of his mouth lifts up in a shy smile and he turns his back to Sherlock, walking towards the field. John groans internally for having been so damn _uncool_ in front of the best wizard at Hogwarts and he wonders why it suddenly bothers him so much what others think of him. Or maybe he just cares what Sherlock thinks of him.

“John,” Sherlock calls out his name, and John swivels on the spot, turning back to face him again, taking note of the fact that Sherlock is still looking at him and hasn’t moved since John has walked away. “Thank you.”

The words hit John just like a spell would, straight in the chest with a dull impact. He barely knows Sherlock, but John knows enough _about_ him to be surprised by the statement: Sherlock doesn’t thank anyone, for anything, ever. But he just thanked John and his insides are taking that as an excuse to execute all kinds of somersaults.

Damn it.

John realizes with startling clarity and a tad of alarm that he might just have a crush on Sherlock Holmes. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all, sorry for the wait on the update, this week was a bit crazy, but here is chapter two. One more to go after this one! I'd love to know what you think.

Attending classes is dull and pointless. Sherlock never learns anything he doesn’t already know, and he’s convinced his professors are well aware of that, too. He’s doing sixth year assignments in most of his classes because he’d be bored out of his mind if he stuck to the normal fifth year curriculum like the rest of his classmates. Not that he isn’t bored. He is. Almost constantly.

Only recently there’s one thing that’s managed to pique his interest consistently, one thing he doesn’t really understand, that keeps him up at night, a mystery he hasn’t been able to solve yet.

John Watson.

It’s driving him close to insane. He needs more data, needs access to more information if he’s to make accurate deductions and come to reliable conclusions. All he knows for sure is that thoughts of John Watson have clouded his brain for the past three weeks, ever since he came to his aid in the courtyard after Anderson and Donovan had snuck up behind him and managed to jinx him.

Stupid. He’d been an idiot not to realize they’d followed him from his Transfiguration class into the courtyard and frankly, he thought he might have been stuck there for hours had John not showed up when he did.

Why _had_ John showed up? That’s perhaps the most perplexing question he can’t get past.

It was perfectly obvious why John was in the area at that particular time: he’d been on the fastest route to the Quidditch pitch from the Astronomy tower having just finished with Divination (Sherlock had noticed the books John had been carrying at the time, the deduction had been child’s play). It’s also obvious that John had overheard Donovan and Anderson, they had been less than subtle in their glee to have gotten the drop on Sherlock, a feat they’d been attempting to pull for months.

No, the real query, what Sherlock still can’t wrap his mind around is why John Watson would intervene, why he’d taken Sherlock’s side and cursed Donovan, taking Anderson’s wand and freed Sherlock with a counter jinx.

They aren’t friends. Sherlock doesn’t have friends, Donovan and Anderson had been right about that. Why would he when the rest of the student population here were idiots anyway? He doesn’t bother with friends or with anyone else. All he’s been focused on is passing his O.W.Ls and N.E.W.Ts so he could finally do something less tedious and take up work as a Consulting Auror.

It isn’t an official position at the Ministry of Magic, but that doesn’t bother him. He’d invented the job and he was the only wizard for it. Besides, there was absolutely no way he’d ever work for Mycroft at the Ministry. It was simple, really: they’d call Sherlock in when the regular Aurors were out of their depths, for the truly interesting and dangerous cases, and that was fine by him – Sherlock wants nothing to do with anything monotonous or mind-numbing anyway.

Not much manages to capture his attention these days, nothing, apparently, except for John. Which is why Sherlock finds himself in an exceptionally good mood heading down to the dungeons for his potions class this afternoon. Ravenclaw has double potions with the Gryffindors this year and usually, that would annoy him: he truly doesn’t see the advantage of pairing up more stupid people in one room. But for three weeks, this has been the one time he’s known with absolute certainty he’d get to see John. They don’t sit together, but at least Sherlock gets to observe him for a full two hours, taking in as much as he can. He’d followed John around one week, it had been fairly easy to deduce and memorize his weekly timetable and thankfully John had remained oblivious. Apparently though, that wasn’t enough because Sherlock still doesn’t have any answers.

Well, obviously he’s managed to collect information on John he hadn’t known before, like the fact that he wants to be a Healer (it was a natural choice given John’s care-taking tendencies), he has far too many friends (whoever needs that many people around?), and though he doesn’t mind wizard robes, John seems to prefer soft, knitted sweaters.

These just aren’t the answers he needs. No, what he needs is to _talk_ to John. Maybe then things would begin to make sense. He just doesn’t have a clue how to go about that, at least not in a way that wouldn’t result in John most probably never speaking to him again.

He usually doesn’t care what others think of him, which is why he makes absolutely no effort to filter his thoughts, no matter how rude, he just says whatever he happens to be thinking. People would hate him anyway, so what was the point of mincing words?

But for some reason, it would appear he _does_ care what John thinks of him, and he would rather John not hate him like everyone else. He’d considered putting on an act – he found he was quite good at pretending to be someone else entirely – but somehow that seemed wrong, too. Again, Sherlock doesn’t know _why_ , and that’s partly what’s so bloody infuriating. What is so different about John than the rest of them? He doesn’t know, he just understands it as fact, as obvious as how Aconite is used in a Wolfsbane potion or how Bezoars act as an antidote to most poisons.

Sherlock enters the dungeon and takes his usual seat at the back of the class, a perfect vantage point to observe the rest of the class, though he’s solely interested in John at the moment. Students start to pour in, and Sherlock notices the exact moment John walks into the room, chatting with Lestrade (Sherlock can’t be bothered to remember his first name), another Gryffindor and, as Sherlock had deduced over the last few weeks, one of John’s closest friends. They head towards their usual seat at the front of the dungeon, which Sherlock quickly notices is occupied by most of the ingredients the class would be using today.

Snape makes a comment about John and Lestrade finding new seats for the day and John looks around the class then, his gaze landing on Sherlock and their eyes lock. Something in Sherlock’s chest feels odd, a pang of some sort, entirely foreign to him and it only seems to grow when John makes his way towards him.

“Mind if I take this seat?” John asks when he’s reached Sherlock’s station, his head tilting to the side towards the empty chair beside Sherlock. This is perfect really; it would give Sherlock the exact opportunity he’d been hoping for. So why are his vocal cords failing him, like every word he’s ever been taught is lodged in his throat? This never happens to him. “It’s just that Snape’s got all the ingredients for today’s potion set up at my usual spot…” John explains when Sherlock remains silent. He looks unsure now, like he thinks maybe he’s misread something and should go somewhere else instead and for some reason that breaks Sherlock out of the sort of trance he’s been in.

“Right, yes, you can have this one.” Sherlock isn’t used to having anyone sit beside him – most students either have seating partners already or are just keen to avoid him – and he moves his things over to make space for John.

Before he can think of anything of interest to say, Professor Snape begins his lecture at the front of the class. “Today you’ll be preparing Draught of Peace. This potion will be part of your O.W.Ls so I expect anyone who strives to earn at least an ‘E’ in this course to pay close attention.”

Sherlock notices John’s shoulders square up, his attention focusing. Ah, so John wishes to do well. So far, his performance in the class has been passable, but nothing extraordinary, making today’s potion important to him.

They both walk to the front of the class to collect the ingredients specified in their textbooks, not that Sherlock needs to look, he’s already successfully brewed this potion before more than once. This would be fairly simple.

John had at least managed to pick up all the correct ingredients and materials from the front, which was unfortunately not the case for a few of their classmates (though he kept this to himself), he’s glad to see John isn’t a complete idiot.

And why exactly doesn’t he want John to be an idiot?

Or maybe it’s more that he doesn’t want John to be like the rest of them.

He doesn’t usually care if people are idiots, it’s just the way things are. Apparently, he _cares_ whether or not John is an idiot – that’s new. 

“You nervous about the O.W.Ls?” John asks as he adds powdered moonstone to his cauldron, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts.

“Not particularly,” he answers truthfully, he’s quite certain he’ll get an “O” for Outstanding in most of his classes, no matter how dreadfully boring they are. His answer makes John laugh and something warm spreads through Sherlock’s stomach at the sound. What is _wrong_ with him?

“You’re probably the only fifth year who doesn’t need to be worried,” John admits, looking at Sherlock quickly and giving him a small smile. Had John just acknowledged that the rest of the students in their year were idiots? Surely not.

“How do you mean?” Sherlock asks for clarification, sure he’s missed something, and John laughs again, softer this time.

“Just that you’re brilliant, everyone knows that.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s something so common someone would say or think, it feels like John has physically struck him. Sure, Sherlock knows he’s brilliant, but no one else seems to think so or acknowledge it: mostly they think he’s an annoying wanker who likes to show off.

“That’s most definitely not what people usually say,” Sherlock counters, and John looks up at him curiously.

“What do people usually say?”

“Tell me to piss off,” he says bluntly, and John laughs _again_ , making Sherlock’s insides twist and coil in… an unfamiliar yet admittedly quite pleasant way.

“Only because they wish they had your talent,” John scoffs, turning back to his potion and adding the next ingredient.

It takes Sherlock off guard. First John called him brilliant, and now talented. Why was he being so… nice? Sherlock doesn’t quite know what to do with that. No one is ever nice to him, really.

Does John want something from him? It would have seemed like the most likely conclusion, only John hasn’t asked anything of him as of yet. He’d asked for no favor in return for helping Sherlock out that day in the courtyard. He could have approached Sherlock to ask for anything since then, but he hasn’t. Even now, John hasn’t so much as asked for help with his Draught of Peace potion, though he probably knows Sherlock is the best in their class and John could have used the help. Maybe that’s why Sherlock feels compelled to do so.

“You’ve got to stir counter-clockwise as well,” Sherlock tells John just as he was about to put in the next ingredient, missing a crucial step. Why does he want to help John? Helping others is complete unlike him, he doesn’t bother with others, least of all if he thinks they needed his help.

John looks over to Sherlock and back at the instructions in his book, confused. “Really? It doesn’t say so in the textbook.”

“Trust me.” It’s probably the most ludicrous thing to say. John really has no reason to trust him, they barely know each other. John’s eyes lock with his once more, questioning and there’s… there’s something more there, something Sherlock can’t quite place and when John breaks away from his gaze to turn back to his potion, he stirs it counter-clockwise before putting in the next ingredient. After seven turns, his potion turns purple, as the book said it would and John turns back to him with a wide smile.

“Brilliant,” John says again, and Sherlock realizes, to his own horror, that he can feel the blood rising in his cheeks. “Thanks,” John adds kindly and Sherlock nods, looking away quickly, fearing that the blush may worsen. This is worse than he thought, or rather, the effect John Watson has on him is far worse than he’d thought. How is he supposed to concentrate on getting any answers when his body is intent on betraying him this way?

“How did you know to do that?” Sherlock wills his heart rate to stabilize long enough to focus on John again.

“I’ve made this potion before. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the instructions from our student textbook weren’t sufficient to make it correctly, so I experimented until I found what was missing.”

“How did you even get the ingredients to make this on your own?” John questions and Sherlock grins at the memory because it was quite exhilarating.

“Raided Snape's cupboards when I knew he’d be elsewhere.”

John sniggers and gives him a mischievous smile. “The less I know the better, then,” John grins and Sherlock finds himself smiling back. He thinks of what it might be like to have John at his side the next time he sneaks around the castle after curfew and finds that, oddly, he isn’t at all opposed to the idea. He might even like it.

Would John be willing to go on nightly, potentially dangerous escapades with him? Perhaps next time he’d extend an invitation. The thought of it alone has something akin to panic – or was it excitement? – rising in his chest.

They keep quiet for the rest of the class, John focusing on brewing his potion correctly and Sherlock finds himself watching from the corner of his eye to make sure he makes no other mistakes. Sherlock is pleased that there’s no need for him to interfere again, John is doing well enough on his own.

By the time Snape comes by their table, both he and John have successfully added the last of the ingredients and both their potions look just as they should. Snape eyes John almost skeptically, as though he’d expected him to fail. For some reason, that doesn’t sit well with Sherlock.

“Not bad, Watson,” Snape admits, which is high praise coming from their annoyingly fastidious professor. “Perhaps you should make a habit of sitting next to Mr. Holmes given these… surprising results.”

Sherlock expects John to look affronted at the comment and even more so at the suggestion that they sit together again, but John merely smiles, apparently unbothered by either.

“Maybe I will,” he answers, shooting Sherlock a sideways glance and hiding a corner smile as though they share a secret and Snape stalks off dramatically with a sneer. Sherlock’s never wanted anyone to sit next to him before. But he already feels strangely protective of John and the thought of him sitting anywhere else than at his side during potions class for the remainder of the year seems wholly unacceptable. John seems amenable, but he may still need to come up with a way to incapacitate Lestrade before their next class to make sure that happens. Backpedaling, Sherlock reflects that that may not be a great idea if he wants John to continue liking him. Bugger.

“Thanks again,” John says, turning back to him once Snape is out of earshot. “For the tip about stirring counter-clockwise. I owe you one.” 

Sherlock turns to meet his gaze, a bit puzzled. “I’d say we’re even,” he counters. If anything, Sherlock thinks he might still be in John’s debt, his helping John for one potion surely couldn’t compare to what John did to help him when Anderson and Donovan had jinxed him.

“Right,” John agrees with a shy smile, as though he didn’t think what he’d done for Sherlock was a big deal.

“I could help you, if you’d like.” The words are out of Sherlock’s mouth before he can process them, and he cringes internally. Why would John want his help? John probably couldn’t wait to get away from him-

“Help with what?” John asks, picking up his books form the table, and Sherlock reads his features as more curious – intrigued even – than repelled. He hasn’t bolted from the class at the first opportunity or raced to meet with Lestrade again once Snape had dismissed them, so he takes that as a positive sign.

“Potions,” Sherlock says, lamely. He needs to do better than this if he wants to keep John around. “It’s just I know you want to be a Healer and potions would be important for your O.W.Ls.”

“How did you know I want to be a Healer?” Right, he might need to explain.

“Seemed obvious given the classes you’re taking this year, other than Divination of course, but I’ve concluded the most probable explanation for that is that it fit with your Quidditch schedule. You like to help others, like you did me, which indicates strong care-taking and empathetic tendencies. Not to mention you’ve been around the infirmary at least three times in the past week though you exhibit no observable signs of injury nor are there regular patients you seemed to have been visiting: the natural deduction would be that you’re there to speak with Madame Pomfrey. So, a Healer.” His observations, connections, and deductions come tumbling out before he can think to filter himself and Sherlock braces himself for John to turn his back to him and tell him Anderson and Donovan were right to call him a freak. But when Sherlock looks up to assess John’s reaction, he looks… awed.

“That was fantastic.” Something warm pulses in Sherlock’s stomach at John’s praise and though he would usually be tempted to boast, he finds himself shrugging sheepishly.

“Simple observations and deductions,” he downplays his abilities and John shakes his head, still smiling and unbelieving.

“Alright,” John agrees, and Sherlock is still so flustered he doesn’t remember what John is agreeing to. “I’ll accept your help with potions, _but_ only if you do it because you really want to. Like you said, we’re even, there’s no obligation to pay me back or anything.”

Does John think Sherlock would consider spending time with him a hardship?

“I want to,” Sherlock assures him, perhaps even a little too fast, betraying his eagerness to see more of John.

John nods, smiling lightly at the words and, oh-

Sherlock notices John is the one blushing now. His insides flutter at the sight. “Right, so when are you free then?” John asks as they make their way out of the dungeon, climbing the stairs side by side. _Anytime_ , Sherlock wants to say, but that would be too forward.

“Thursday evening?” Sherlock suggests, making it sound like a question though he already knows it would be the best time in John’s schedule considering all his classes and Quidditch. It’s Tuesday today. He can wait two days.

“Works for me,” John says as they reach the top of the stairs. “So, see you Thursday, then?”

Sherlock nods, hoping he doesn’t look like he’s already counting down the minutes and hours. He is, of course, but John certainly doesn’t need to know that. “Thursday.”

John smiles and turns away, as they both head to different classes in opposing parts of the castle. The tension in his body slowly ebbs away as John turns the corner and Sherlock recalls a lesson Mycroft has often repeated over the years, namely that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Abiding by those rules has never been an issue for him in the past, but Sherlock suddenly realizes – given his own reactions and despite Mycroft’s many warnings – that he’s most probably doomed to develop sentiments for John Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the longer wait, but this last one is a bit longer, so hopefully that makes up for it! Enjoy 😊

By the time Miss Sprout wraps up their Herbology lesson, John fees like he’s about to jump out of his skin. It’s Thursday: he feels like he’s been buzzing with excitement and waiting for this moment for way too long when really, it’s barely even been two days. He’s eager to see Sherlock. They haven’t been able to talk since potions on Tuesday and John’s only managed to sneak glances at him in the Great Hall over dinner. Their eyes met once, when John had looked over to the Ravenclaw table where Sherlock always sat and found Sherlock already looking his way. John had felt his entirely body flush from head to toe, waving at Sherlock before turning away. It’s probably the first time John has found himself upset that they have to sit with members of their own house over meals. It seems ridiculous that they aren’t allowed to choose their own seats. He’d brought it up to Greg the other day and his friend had looked at him like he’d grown a second head. He can’t be the only one to think this, right?

“Hey, what’s been going on with you?” He startles at the sound of Greg’s voice as he catches up with John who’d sprung for the door as soon as Miss Sprout had dismissed them. “You’ve been jumpy these last few days, even distracted during Quidditch.”

“Nothing, everything’s fine,” John dismisses quicky.

“Ohhh, I know that look,” Greg says, rounding on him with a smug smile on his face, walking backwards in the corridor as he faces John. “Who’s the girl, then?”

John just about chokes on air. “There’s no girl, Greg,” he denies and really, it’s not his fault if Greg formulated his question around an assumption. He doesn’t even have to lie because there is most certainly no girl. And though there _is_ someone, he’s not about to tell Greg that. He kind of wants to keep Sherlock all to himself for now, especially since he has no bloody clue whether or not Sherlock would even be interested in… anyone, least of all him. Yeah, probably best to keep things on the downlow for now.

“Oh, come on, you can tell your best mate at least,” Greg pushes, clearly desperate for some gossip and John will be damned if he gives him the satisfaction.

“Can’t, I’ve got to go study for Potions.” John makes a sharp turn to the right, purposefully evading Greg, and again, technically it’s not a lie, it’s just not the whole truth either, because the feeling taking flight in John’s stomach has nothing to do with practicing potions and all to do with the person he’s meeting. As far as John’s concerned, the fact that he isn’t doing great in Potions and that Sherlock is a genius at it just so happens to be perfectly convenient, a great excuse for them to meet up without people asking too many questions.

“Alright, fine,” Greg says from behind him, half shouting as he gets swallowed up by a crowd of students exiting their classes and flooding the corridor, and John grins because he knows he’s won for now. “But don’t think you’re getting off so easily, I’ll get it out of you eventually, Watson.” Yeah, he probably will, but definitely not today. Today he’s meeting Sherlock.

He heads towards the Gryffindor common room to drop off his books and pick up his Potions material when if first occurs to him that he and Sherlock hadn’t even set a time or place to meet up. They haven’t gotten the chance to talk since Tuesday. Could Sherlock have forgotten? It’s entirely possible that something way more interesting than meeting John came up and since they haven’t discussed meeting up again maybe he’d-

The sound of tapping on glass catches John’s attention before he can over think things, and he looks over to the window to find a note folded up in a paper airplane knocking for him to open. He grins, somehow already knowing it has to be from Sherlock.

John nearly trips over himself in his haste to get to the window to let in the charmed note.

_At the library. Come at once, if convenient. – SH_

He grins at the note, shoving it in his pocket, grabbing his books and heads out of the common room towards the library without a second thought.

John is prepared to go right in and search for Sherlock when he gets there, but Sherlock is standing outside the entrance, his back against the wall, with one knee up, his foot propped up on the wall and John fleetingly thinks it’s completely unfair how mysterious and attractive he looks.

“Hey,” John can’t contain his smile when he finally reaches Sherlock and he mentally slaps himself because he is the epitome of uncool right now.

“Hello,” Sherlock nods back at him and John thinks he sees a smile at the corner of his mouth, but that may just be wishful thinking. God, he’s a rightful mess. “I was thinking we could try our hand at brewing a Strengthening Solution,” Sherlock suggests. “It’s likely the next thing on Snapes curriculum and I’ve estimated there’s an eighty seven percent chance of this being part of our Potions O.W.L. examinations.”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” John agrees, appreciating that Sherlock seems to be focusing on things John will need for his O.W.L.s.

“I should warn you, it takes several days to brew… We’ll need to meet up again a few times this week to check on them.”

“Great- I mean, yeah, that’s fine,” John corrects himself, not wanting to sound overly eager, but he thinks he ends up sounding like an idiot instead, which is infinitely worse, and he resists the urge to beat his head against the nearest wall. Sherlock gives him a curious look but seems satisfied with his answer. “What about the ingredients?” John asks quickly, hoping Sherlock will forget about his slip up. It must have been the right thing to say because Sherlock’s grin broadens at the question.

“Yes, the trickier ingredients such as salamander blood and powdered Griffin claw might require some… scavenging.”

John smiles at him: he’d been hoping Sherlock would say that. Ever since Sherlock had mentioned how he’d raided Snapes closet, John had been thinking about how exciting it must have been, the thrill of sneaking around, stealing from Snape (he’d feel absolutely no guilt over that), and praying he wouldn’t get caught. It sounded like mad fun. “I’m in.”

“Might be dangerous,” Sherlock challenges, raising an eyebrow at John as though he expects John to back down immediately, but it only strengthens John’s resolve.

“Even better,” he confirms and Sherlock smirks, apparently pleased with his response.

“Good. Hagrid’s would be the first place I’d look for the Griffin claw, he’s bound to have some lying around his hut, we can worry about powdering it after we’ve acquired it.” 

They take the quickest route down to Hagrid’s, walking down the path as the sun sets behind the castle and John feels his heart begin to pump faster as the curfew time approaches, knowing full well they won’t be back in their respective dormitories by then. Then again, maybe his elevated heartrate has more to do with the fact that his hand brushes the back of Sherlock’s a few times as they follow the narrow path side by side and Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind or pull his hand back.

They scurry the rest of the way down and crouch against the thick stones of Hagrid’s home, Sherlock peering through the window. “You’ll have to distract Fang,” Sherlock instructs. “If you can get him to bark at the front door, Hagrid should be distracted enough, I should have time to sneak in through the back.”

Before John gets the chance to ask how he’s supposed to distract a dog long enough for him to get in, Sherlock has already turned away and is heading towards the back entrance, leaving John to his task. Bugger.

John creeps around to the front, taking out his wand and his latest transfiguration lesson comes back to him. He should be able to transform a branch into a squirrel. That should do the trick, right? John pulls his wand out of his pocket and murmurs the spell, mentally patting himself on the back when he succeeds on the first try. He hears Fang bark from inside and Hagrid tell him to hush, but Fang continues to bark as the squirrel taunts him through the window.

“What’re ye so upset about, ye blimey beast?” Hagrid mutters to the dog rhetorically, opening up the front door for him and John throws himself to the ground behind an overgrown pumpkin to avoid being seen. The squirrel runs off in the opposite direction and Fang takes off after it. He hopes he’s given Sherlock enough time to get through the back door because frankly, John is out of ideas and his heart is racing, beating hard against his chest. He peaks over the top of the pumpkin in time to see Hagrid come through the door and turn to walk around the hut. John takes the opportunity to bolt for the trees where there’s far more cover. He makes it into the forest, plunged mostly in darkness now that the sun has set completely and plasters his back to the trunk of a tree three times his width, panting slightly as the adrenaline courses through him. Catching his breath, John peers over his shoulder to look for Sherlock but doesn’t see him, though he hears Hagrid come back from around the house. His heart starts hammering again at the thought of Sherlock getting caught inside and he’s considering blowing his cover to buy Sherlock more time inside to look for the Griffin claw. He takes a step forward to walk out of the shadows when he’s suddenly shoved back up against a tree.

A hand covers his mouth and muffles his shout of surprise, and a tall, lean body pins John to the tree.

“It’s me.” The tension in John’s body deflates as he recognizes Sherlock’s deep baritone voice, even in a whisper.

Sherlock takes his hand off his mouth once he’s certain John won’t be making any noise to give them away and moves it to lay on the bark, beside John’s head. They’re incredibly close, Sherlock practically boxing him in against the tree as they wait for Hagrid and Fang to get back into the house before they can sneak back up to the castle. John feels his heart pounding against his sternum, but the stress of getting caught has mostly worn off by now and he thinks his elevated heartrate has more to do with Sherlock’s proximity, the way John can feel the long lines of Sherlock’s body against his, how every puff of Sherlock’s breath hits John’s cheek and how it’s the first time their close enough that John notices how good Sherlock smells.

“Did you get it?” John asks, mostly to distract himself from how incredibly close Sherlock is and hopefully keep his body from reacting in an embarrassing way. It turns out that was a major miscalculation though, because Sherlock shifts to lock eyes with him at the question, their faces mere inches apart and then he smiles so bright, John feels like something inside him is melting, like he’d do anything to see that smile every single day. Mostly, he’s thinking about how he wants to catch that smile with his own, to taste the happiness and the thrill of the moment on Sherlock’s lips.

“Check the front pocket of my robes,” Sherlock instructs, and John is fairly sure he blushes crimson, he can only hope it’s dark enough for Sherlock not to notice. He swallows hard, reaching down blindly and doing his best not to touch or brush against anything that is _not_ Sherlock’s front pocket and, miraculously, he succeeds. Never breaking eye contact with Sherlock, his fingers wrap around a something long and smooth with a sharp edge, and he pulls it up between the two of them. The Griffin claw.

John can’t keep the amazement off his face. “How did you even have _time_?”

“Knew where to look,” Sherlock shrugs likes it’s nothing, still smiling and it takes everything John has not to push up on the tips of his toes to brush a kiss over his mouth. Would Sherlock even want that? Is he interested at all? He seems to like hanging out with John, he was even the one to offer his help for Potions, but that doesn’t mean he’s interested in John in _that_ way. The questions whirl around in his head at lightspeed, but Sherlock still hasn’t broken eye contact and when he does John is pretty sure his eyes drift down to John’s mouth and – _oh god, maybe he does want this_?

But just as John is about to lean forward, test the waters, Sherlock’s arms fall away from John’s sides, pulling away, leaving John feeling breathless, confused and just a tiny bit worked up.

“They’ve gone. We should head back before someone realizes we’re missing,” Sherlock suggests, and John thinks he might deliberately be avoiding his gaze.

“Right,” John agrees because he isn’t sure what else to say. _Pull it together, Watson_. John mentally shakes himself, willing himself to push his own desires to the back of his mind. Potions. He should focus on that and making this Strengthening Solution correctly. Sherlock was just being nice, being his friend. Besides, it seems Sherlock doesn’t keep many friends around, so the least John can do is keep from royally messing things up by making everything more complicated with his feelings.

* * *

Over the next five weeks, John and Sherlock become nearly inseparable. They meet up every day with the pretense of practicing Potions, their quests to find required ingredients taking them on wild adventures and fulfilling a need John had never even realized he’d been craving. Sherlock makes him discover Hogwarts in an entirely new way, they use secret passages and rooms he never knew about, scurrying through forbidden floors and sprinting across the moving staircases to avoid Filch. Mostly, their evenings end with them gasping for breath in hushed laughter. John has never been happier, and, incidentally, his Potions grades have never been higher.

“You going home for the break?” Greg asks him after their Transfiguration lecture has ended. The Christmas break is in two days and John has no intention of going home. He’s been dreading the holidays, contrary to everyone who all seem impatient to return home to their families and get a short time off from classes. It might be a long two weeks at Hogwarts alone until the other students return, but anything is better than going home to his parents drinking the holidays away. He’d made up his mind a few days ago when he’d received a howler from his Mum: despite the screaming accusations that he’d abandoned their family to attend school, he could hear her words had been slurred, could almost smell the alcohol on her breath even though she’d been nowhere near him. He’d been lucky the letter had arrived when he’d been alone in the Gryffindor dormitory, just moments before he’d left to meet with Sherlock. No one else needs to know how messed up his family is.

“Nah, staying here,” John answers, not bothering to bore him with the details. Greg would probably be sympathetic, he’s always been a good friend to John, but for some reason, he just can’t bring himself to say it and Greg doesn’t ask.

“Well, at least you won’t be alone this year.”

John turns to him, confused. “You’re staying, too?”

“Oh no, not me. I wouldn’t miss my Mum’s Christmas pudding for anything in the world. But your new Potions partner should be here.”

John turns towards him so quickly he thinks he might have stretched something in his neck. “What? How do you know that?” Greg never speaks to Sherlock, he’s never even seen them interact, so how could he possibly know what Sherlock’s plans are for Christmas? Greg gives him an all-too-knowing grin and John might have been worried if he wasn’t so excited about the idea of staying at the castle with Sherlock for two whole weeks.

“He’s one of the only students who’s stayed home for Christmas every year since we’ve started at Hogwarts. Hadn’t you noticed before?” Now that Greg mentions it, John does remember thinking it was odd Sherlock never seemed to go home over extended breaks, but they weren’t friends at the time and Sherlock hadn’t mentioned anything to him either. In all fairness, neither had John. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at him. I’m not completely daft, you know.”

John feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment. Was he really being that obvious?

“I-” John considers denying it, but the lie dies on his tongue before he says a word. “Alright, fine. I like him. There.”

“About damn time you admit it out loud, you’ve been pining over him ever since you first had to sit together in Potions,” Greg teased.

“I have _not_ been pining,” John counters, because that definitely makes him sound like an idiot. God, he really hopes Sherlock hasn’t noticed.

“You so have,” Greg insists. “It’s fine though, I’m pretty sure he likes you too.”

“How could you possibly know that?” John asks incredulously, but he’s secretly holding out hope Greg will have a rational explanation he can hold onto, he wants so badly to have proof his feelings are reciprocal.

“You can never know for sure with Holmes, but for starters, I’m certain he would have told you to bugger off already if he didn’t like you. That, and he doesn’t seem keen to insult you too much, which he does with absolutely everybody else. All good signs, really.” John huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Great points, I’ll be sure to throw myself at him next time we cross paths in the halls,” John replies sarcastically.

“Well… you will have the whole castle to yourselves over Christmas break, so that’d be a great time to throw yourself at him.”

“Shut it,” John feels his cheeks heating and Greg laughs, enjoying himself far too much for John’s liking.

As much as John hates to admit it, Greg isn’t all that wrong. The break might be the perfect time to broach the subject and see if his feelings for Sherlock are… more than one-sided. John can’t deny that his feelings for Sherlock border on more than friendship, but he isn’t sure if he’s ready to give up Sherlock altogether if he doesn’t feel the same way. That’s usually what happens, right? When one person admits to developing feelings in a friendship, everything about the relationship dynamic changes, every word and action becomes laden with a new layer of meaning and expectations, and usually the relationship either evolves into something romantic or dies altogether. He doesn’t want to lose Sherlock, not when he’s just found him. Then again, his feelings for Sherlock seem to be growing deeper every day, with every interaction they have, John finds himself falling just a little bit further. He isn’t sure if he can go on suppressing those feelings, resisting the urge to brush his hand against Sherlock’s and intertwining their fingers, to tuck a stray curl from Sherlock’s forehead behind his ear, or kiss him when he deduces something absolutely brilliant.

Conflicted and lost in thought, John says nothing as he and Greg make their way up to the common room. Once they get there, John isn’t any clearer on the issue, but he’s resolved not to let his personal dilemma affect his time with Sherlock. Besides, Greg might be wrong about Sherlock staying at the castle over the break, he should really verify with him.

* * *

It turns out Greg is right, when John asks him about it that night, Sherlock confirms that both his parents and his brother work for the Ministry of Magic and that the holidays are an incredibly busy time for them. Sherlock doesn’t see the utility in going home to an empty house when he could stay at Hogwarts and continue his Potions experiments. When John tells him he’ll also be staying, Sherlock seems surprised (John relishes the moment, as it’s rare he can manage to intentionally surprise Sherlock) and rather pleased. John couldn’t be more thrilled. No matter what, spending two whole weeks with Sherlock with practically no one around will be fantastic.

They spend practically every waking moment together. Now that the rest of the school is gone, they can have meals together, and with no classes they have no reason to separate. John finds that he’s entirely okay with that and Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind either. They continue their potions experiments of course, and retrieve needed ingredients when necessary, but Sherlock sticks around when John needs to catch up on work from his other classes and John often observes as Sherlock tries out new, complicated spells neither of them need to know for their courses. They even go as far as sneaking each other into their respective common rooms. Visiting common rooms other than your own houses isn’t allowed but because there isn’t anyone around, they get away with it.

John can’t get over the fact that the Ravenclaws need to solve a puzzle every time they want to enter their own room.

_“Doesn’t that get annoying?” John had asked as the door swung open after Sherlock had taken seconds to solve the enigma of the day to get past the portrait. He’d been taken aback by how different the space was than his own common room. Having never seen any other common room than Gryffindor’s he’d always imagined they all would look similar, save for the change in house colors. Most of the accessories around the room are blue and silver of course, and the walls are lined with impressively tall shelves packed with rows upon rows of books – there are so many, it almost feels like a second library. The ceiling is high and resembles that of the great hall, mirroring the night sky, though the stars seem more visible in this room than they do in the common area. There are even some arches, pillars, and statues, all made of marble, and John almost feels like he’s stepped into another time. Somehow it still has a cozy feel to it, and he sees how the Ravenclaw students would enjoy gathering in a room like this one._

_“Oh yes, the puzzles are quite dull,” Sherlock answers his question, pulling him out of his reverie and back to the present. When he registers Sherlock’s answer, John laughs because only Sherlock would be annoyed at the fact that the puzzles weren’t challenging enough. “Watching others fail to solve a riddle can be entertaining, though,” he added._

_“Does that happen often?” John is curious, couldn’t imagine being stuck out of your own common room if you couldn’t find the solution._

_“More often than you’d think for students who are supposed to be part of the intelligent house.”_

_“Hey, the rest of us don’t have heads full of air, you know,” John defends though he’s learned not to be offended by the way Sherlock thinks or how he doesn’t bother to filter his thoughts._

_“I’d argue most do, but I’ll admit you’ve personally proved me wrong about that.” Something warm settled in John’s stomach at the words, knowing it was the closest thing to a compliment Sherlock would ever give to anyone and he’d consciously had to repress the urge to reach for Sherlock’s robes and pull him down for a kiss. He didn’t, but he’d wanted to,_ god _did he want to. He’d warred with himself, his body wanting nothing more than to be close to Sherlock and his mind arguing that he’d been having such a great time with him over this break and that his advances could ruin all of it. If Sherlock turned him down, there’d be no going back, no returning to pretending he didn’t have stronger feelings for him, and John is certain Sherlock would feel uncomfortable around him. In that particular moment, his mind had won, and he’d shut down his body’s urges once again, not willing to take the leap, fearing the potential consequences and the unknown._

On Christmas morning, John wakes up to the sound of repetitive tapping. He forces his eyes to open and looks around the room for the source of the sound until his eyes land on the window by his bed and he sees what looks like a note knocking on the glass over and over, spellbound and trying to get in. John grins despite having been woken up. This isn’t the first time Sherlock has sent him a message this way. He reaches over to open the window and the paper flies in, hitting him square in the chest. John breaks the wax seal and opens it, instantly recognizing Sherlock’s distinctively scribbly penmanship.

_Meet me at the Ravenclaw common room in an hour. – SH_

John doesn’t know why Sherlock signs all of his notes when it’s obvious who sent them (who else would be inviting him over to the Ravenclaw common room?) but he finds it oddly endearing. Filled with giddy energy, John shoots out of bed. He and Sherlock hadn’t made any actual plans for Christmas day, but he’s glad it isn’t going to be an exception and that they’d probably end up spending most of their time together. Besides, he’s excited to give Sherlock his present. He isn’t sure how Sherlock will react to it: he’ll either hate it or love it and John hopes to God it’s the latter. Still in his pyjamas, he grabs his wand and the neatly wrapped present and rushes out of the dormitory, towards where he now knows to be the Ravenclaw common room.

“You’re early,” Sherlock says when he opens the door at John’s knock (no way is he trying to solve a puzzle right now, his brain is running on over drive already) with a raised eyebrow.

“I was already up,” John shrugs, trying to downplay his excitement and Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, as though seeing right through the lie. John’s cheeks heat slightly but he’s glad when Sherlock says nothing about it and lets him in. Sherlock is also still wearing his sleep wear, a midnight blue bath robe wrapped around his long, lithe body and John pushes back the thought of what it might be like to untie the knot of the loosely tied belt at the front. _Not right now_.

Sherlock’s gaze lands straight on the gift in John’s hands. He had nowhere to hide the present he’d brought Sherlock, the box quite big and heavy so he just offers it over. “I got you something,” John explains, cursing his body as he feels his cheeks warm again. Damn it, why does he react like an impressionable first year whenever he’s around Sherlock? It’s infuriating.

Looking over at Sherlock shyly, John notices his normally marble white cheeks are also tinged pink and John’s insides flip excitedly.

“As it happens, I have something for you as well,” Sherlock says, titling his head towards the large, decorated Christmas tree near the fireplace and John notices a fairly thin, but long rectangular sized box under it. John looks up at him in surprise. He truly hadn’t expected Sherlock to get him anything.

“You didn’t have to,” John says instinctively and all but kicks himself when the words are out of his mouth. Sherlock doesn’t seem offended, though.

“I wanted to,” he explains, and John smiles remembering the first time Sherlock had offered to help John with Potions. They walk over towards the tree, John sitting on the floor next to the box with his name written neatly on it and he sets the present he brought next to Sherlock, who sits cross-legged in front of him.

“You go first,” John insists. He’d expected Sherlock to be tentative, maybe even reluctant to receive a gift for some reason, but he surprises John once again, tearing at the giftwrap with childlike eagerness. It makes John grin and wonder if Sherlock got many gifts as a child. He’s a bit nervous, unsure as to how Sherlock will react to what he got him. He knows Sherlock comes from a pureblood family, it’s never been something John gave much thought to, but he suddenly wonders whether Sherlock would appreciate the nature of his gift.

John watches as Sherlock takes in the image on the box with a perplexed look on his face (it’s not a common expression for Sherlock and John finds that he enjoys his confusion immensely). “Is this some kind of muggle device?”

“It is,” John confirms. “It’s called a microscope. Muggles use it for what they call science, or chemistry. It allows you to see things you can’t detect with your eyes.” Sherlock quickly opens the box to take out the microscope, not saying a word and John feels dread pooling in his stomach. “I know you might not have much use for it in classes and such… I just thought – well since you enjoy deducing things, and those deductions require observations, I thought you might like something that allows you to observe more than what the eye can see.” He stumbles through his own logic, trying to explain why he’d thought this would be a good gift and Sherlock still doesn’t say anything, but John sees him adjusting the nobs to the microscope, now out of the box, pressing his right eye to the lens. He waits, lets Sherlock figure out the workings of the microscope. Maybe getting him a present from the muggle world was foolish, he should have thought of the fact that Sherlock probably thinks all things muggle related were rubbish or dull –

“This is fantastic,” Sherlock exclaims, looking up from the lens and back at John.

“Really?” John asks, surprised. He’d just about convinced himself Sherlock hated it. “You’re not just saying that? It’s okay if you don’t like it.”

“I love it. I can see the most basic details of my fingerprint,” he exclaims, looking at his index finger under the lens, sounding excited and the sound makes John smile. When he looks back up at John, he wears a solemn expression. “No one’s ever given me such a thoughtful gift.” John feels his heart beating hard and wishes he could hug Sherlock, pull him in close. Before he can question whether that’s a good idea or not, Sherlock drops the box he’d kept under the tree in John’s lap. “Now yours.”

John takes his time, he’s always loved getting presents, and he’s enjoying watching Sherlock squirm from the corner of his eye as he watches John, probably wishing he’d go faster. He lifts the lid, his insides twisting in anticipation and under the thin colored tissue paper, he finds a neatly folded cream-colored jumper. His fingers brush over the fabric and he gasps. “It’s so soft.” Sherlock smiles, a real smile that reaches his eyes and John thinks it’s so rare to see him like this, he can’t tear his eyes away.

“I’ve noticed you like wearing jumpers, mostly because they are soft and comfortable, so I made sure it was made from the softest fabric available.” John continues to stare at him, his fingers wrapped around the smoothest material he’s ever felt in his life and something powerful grows in his chest, a force that seems to take over his entire body, involuntarily controlling his limbs, and before he even knows what he’s doing, John pushes up on his knees and breaches the distance between them. He’s still holding on to his new sweater in one hand when his arms wrap around Sherlock’s neck. They’re close, closer than they’ve ever been and when John see’s Sherlock’s eyes widen, he pauses, giving him a few seconds to respond, to pull away if this isn’t what he wants, their faces mere inches apart. Sherlock doesn’t move, his spine straight and John starts to think he’s made a mistake before he feels long, tentative fingers catch in the material of his sleep shirt at his back, pulling him in even closer.

_He wants this too._

The thought is like a tidal wave crashing over him, and he closes the remaining distance between them, touching his lips to Sherlock’s in a kiss as soft as his sweater. He drops his new jumper, lets it fall to the floor to free up his hands, his fingers itching to touch Sherlock’s curls. John pulls back to assess the situation, maybe talk things through to see how Sherlock feels about this development in their relationship but the fingers holding on to the back of John’s shirt tighten, fisting around the fabric and pulling him forward until he falls into Sherlock’s lap.

Smiling against Sherlock’s lips, John quickly revises his train of thought. No need to talk right now: they have the rest of their lives to talk. No, right now he just wants to keep doing _this_ , and it seems Sherlock has absolutely no objections. He chases John’s mouth, eager and wanting and, _god_ , it’s everything John has been dreaming about for weeks. They kiss until they both run out of breath, giving and taking in tandem, like a waltz they’ve perfected over years of practice, like their bodies are perfectly attuned to one another. When Sherlock breaks the kiss for oxygen, John’s head is spinning. He’s dizzy with it, with Sherlock, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands in his hair, and the knowledge that Sherlock apparently wants him just as much as John does.

He can’t help his lips splitting into a wide smile, doesn’t remember a time he was every this happy. Hell, he didn’t know it was even _possible_ to feel this happy, like his body is filled with air and he could float away at any given moment. It’s Sherlock who keeps him grounded, and though he’s pulled away from John’s mouth, his hands are still gripping the back of John’s shirt, holding on and keeping him close.

“You are the most complex deduction I’ve ever encountered,” Sherlock says, and John breathes out a laugh because that is such a _Sherlock_ thing to say.

“I’m flattered?”

“You should be,” Sherlock confirms. “You occupy my mind incessantly and just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you surprise me. Right up until now, I still had no clue whether you wanted this.” John grins, thinking that might oddly be one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever said about him. He’s always thought of himself as quite ordinary, but if he can keep a mind like Sherlock’s entertained, then maybe he isn’t so boring after all.

“Oh, I’ve wanted this,” John says emphatically, swooping forward and capturing Sherlock’s lips in a slow, tender kiss, just to underline the truth of his words. “I didn’t want to risk losing your friendship.”

“What changed just now?” Sherlock asks curiously.

“Nothing, I just couldn’t stand going another second without kissing you. I lost control for a second and my body just took over,” John doesn’t know how else to explain it.

Sherlock hums, thinking over his answer. “You should lose control more often,” he suggests, shifting his hips and looking down at John’s lips, his intent abundantly clear.

“Gladly,” John agrees and captures Sherlock’s mouth with his.

* * *

**_15 Years Later_ **

“Boys, you have a client,” John hears Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, a sweet Hufflepuff woman John has come to care greatly about, call from downstairs as the front door slams shut. The tea has just finished brewing and John flicks his wand in the direction of the kitchen where a tray with two hot cups of tea comes floating down towards the living room.

“Oh, I can already tell this one won’t be dull, you should call off your shift at St-Mungo’s, John,” Sherlock suggests, and John rolls his eyes. Although, if he’s honest with himself, he knows he _will_ most probably end up calling off his shift at the hospital: he doesn’t like to leave Sherlock to work alone on a case.

“How could you possibly know you’ll be interested in this client’s case before you’ve even seen or talked to them?” He challenges, just to make sure Sherlock isn’t having him on.

“I saw her from the window. She’s a Slytherin. Obviously has gotten herself into some kind of trouble given the way she’s looked over her shoulder thrice in the span of fifteen seconds. She’s holding something in her hand, a note of some kind. She was frowning and scared. Someone’s threatened to hurt her, and she’s gone to the Ministry, but they aren’t taking the threat seriously.” John has long ago given up trying to follow Sherlock’s brilliant deductions, but he no longer questions them. Even after fifteen years of knowing him, it never gets old, and John is still just as awed by Sherlock’s mind.

And just as Sherlock had predicted, they take the case.

John always hoped he’d become a Healer, live a simple life and perhaps he’d find some form of happiness along the way. Thinking back to his days at Hogwarts, he’d never have predicted that alongside working as a Healer at St-Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, he’d also be writing a weekly column in _The Daily Prophet_ about the cases Sherlock took on as a Consulting Auror. It’s not the simple, quiet life he’d imagined at all: it’s loud and busy and he gets to share it all with the man he loves. It’s better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every one who left comments and kudos, you have no idea how happy you've made me! Thank you for joining me on this lovely potterlock ride, it was so much fun to write and to share with you. I'd love to know what you thought of this last chapter and the story over all.


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